“Great,” Dark muttered.
They were close to the city now, but caught up in early morning traffic. Dark felt like there was a giant clock ticking in his brain, counting down to something horrible. But the numbers were missing from the face. The end might be any minute from now. Or it may have already happened.
“Strange,” Graysmith muttered. “Does Knack usually invent things out of whole fucking cloth?”
Dark turned in her direction. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, he claims to have spoken to you at length and that you’ve confessed to all of the Tarot Card Murders. That you wouldn’t stop until the last card was dealt, and that many more would die.”
“What?”
“The whole thing’s bizarre. Kind of a diatribe, making you seem like a disgruntled ex-G-man trying to outwit your former employers by committing these crimes. Point is, your face is everywhere. You’re no longer a person of interest. You’re pretty much the main interest.”
Dark thought about what had happened in Fresno. Knack had approached him, tried to pin him down for something. Had he lost his mind, figuring that he could turn a fast buck on a quick-and-dirty fabrication? This caused Dark grief, to be sure, but such blatant fabrications were usually revealed. Just ask Clifford Irving, Jayson Blair, or Stephen Glass. Like bank robbers, journalists who cooked up the facts were almost always caught. Knack would be no different.
Graysmith’s attention, meanwhile, had turned back to the Niantic Tower. She had access to a secret database tracking security at all major U.S. landmarks. Not long after 9/11, the fledgling Department of Homeland Security held a summit meeting of Hollywood screen-writers, best-selling novelists, demolitions experts, former terrorists, and career criminals. A list of landmarks was distributed; the request was simple. How would you breach these?
Apparently, a team of people had set their minds to destroying the Niantic Tower. Graysmith ran through the options.
“Think they’re going to steal another plane?” she asked.
“It’s possible,” Dark said. “Not a commercial airliner, but more likely a private plane, just like the Westmire Investments charter. But they haven’t repeated methods yet. We’ve had a hanging, a push off a ledge, strangling, knife attacks, a plane crash, feigned suicide ...”
“They repeated with guns. Maestro shot at Donnelly. Kobiashi was forced to kill himself.”
“True,” Dark said, faraway look in his eyes.
“You don’t seem convinced,” Graysmith said. “What’s your gut telling you?”
“They’ll try something else. This is their big finale—an entire institution they blame for their family’s downfall.”
“So they’re definitely going after the building.”
“I think so,” Dark said. “Can you have it evacuated? Get emergency response teams here?”
Graysmith looked at him. “How sure are you, Steve?”
“This is the place, Lisa. I know it.”
“Okay. I’ll sound the alarms. I’m not saying it will be easy. You had to deal with bureaucracy at Special Circs. Well, it’s pretty much the same all over the government.”
“Do it.”
Graysmith started to punch in a phone number, then paused. “Wait. If we evacuate, the Maestros will know it. They could abort this plan, come up with something else.”
“No,” Dark said. “This is their big moment. The rest of the murders were just a sideshow; this is going to be their statement. Whatever they have planned, I don’t think they can just pick it up and move it somewhere else.”
“But they still could trigger the event early.”
Dark knew she was right.
chapter 76
Montgomery Street / San Francisco, California
Sleepy-eyed workers filed into the Niantic Tower. Just another workday, bustling with accountants, lawyers, bankers, CPAs, insurance agents, caterers, janitors, security guards, and deliverymen. It was Monday morning, first of the month. Everybody had reports to file, e-mails to send, phone conferences to set up, deliveries to make.
There was the usual flurry of FedEx and UPS and DHL shipments, backlogged from over the weekend. Free gifts from PR agencies. Catered food, for breakfast meetings. Flowers, too. Surprise romantic gestures, congrats, belated birthdays, well-wishes on new deals. Books, samples, clothes, paperwork.
Just another busy Monday morning in the city by the bay.
As he waited for Graysmith’s request to make its way through the proper channels, Dark positioned himself in the lobby of the Niantic Tower, mind racing in overdrive, watching the workers come and go. People in professional gear, bike messengers in Spandex, delivery-men in crisp brown shirts and creased shorts, all streaming in and out of the revolving doors in constant flow, especially at this hour.
The stream of people made Dark see the Maestros in a different light. Roger was a former soldier turned blue-collar worker. Abdulia, a professor and card reader. A life of sweat and toil, a life of the mind. Neither one of them would ever work in a building like this—not unless Roger were working construction or repairs. Was that it? Had he managed to get himself hired on this site?
No, the Philly PD had established that he’d been working a construction job in the city for the past few weeks. Unless he’d bribed someone to fake his time sheets and actually spent his time out here in San Francisco. Roger Maestro had the cash. But you can’t check into a hotel with cash, no matter how much you have. Hotels required credit cards. The Maestros’ credit, Dark recalled, was shot.
Dark remembered the police report: Items were stolen from Green’s Chapel Hill home. Could they have nabbed credit cards, as well? Other sources of funding?
He called Graysmith. “Quick favor.”
“I’m in the middle of groveling with a high-ranking member of the U.S. intelligence world. Do you mind if I call you back?”
“This is easy. I need a credit check on Martin Green. Specifically if anyone’s been using the dead man’s credit cards over the past ten days. And if so, for what.”
Families didn’t always sort these things out right away after a murder. And from what he could tell, Green didn’t have much in the way of family. The Maestros would know this. The man might have been their opening statement, but he could also function as a kind of blank check.
While Dark waited for the call, he watched the lobby of the Niantic Towers. He was a wanted man, thanks to the Knack story, which this morning had been picked up by TV and cable news stations around the world. Being out here, in the general public, was a little insane. Anyone could recognize him at any time, despite the baseball cap he’d picked up from a street vendor.
But he couldn’t leave. Not when he was the only one who knew what the Maestros were up to.
They would be close to the action; they’d want to observe, firsthand, the tower falling. They might even be fine-tuning preparations inside the building somewhere. Dark should go inside, start looking for devices . . . something. That idea was also insane, of course. Even a fifty-man security team could scour the premises and not find a single suspicious device or package . . .
Dark’s cell buzzed.
“Martin Green supposedly used his AmEx Black at a mail-it-yourself place in Nob Hill. Kind of odd for a guy in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. There are a load of other similar purchases in the Greater San Francisco area.”
“Shit.”
Package, Dark thought.
Or packages.
“But what—he’s going to hide a bomb in a box?”
Dark’s eyes swept over the lobby again. There wasn’t just one delivery guy. There was an armada of them, constantly coming and going, carrying boxes and bags and trays and containers and overnight envelopes . . .
“If I were doing this,” Dark said, “I wouldn’t plant just one bomb, I would send multiple bombs. And I’d study the layout of the building so that I knew exactly where to send them, like a controlled demolition.”
“Fuck,” Graysmith said.<
br />
“I’d even err on the side of overkill,” Dark said, “so even if a percentage of the packages didn’t show up, then I’d still have plenty of destructive power to bring this tower down.”
“And nobody screens packages—hell, we’re not even screening ninety-nine percent of the shipping containers that come into U.S. ports.”
Dark looked at all of the people waving their badges over the security turnstiles. Dozens and dozens headed in, almost nobody headed out. Monday morning. Everyone reporting to work, jacked up on Starbucks and thinking about the long week ahead.
“You have to get a team to this building now, Lisa.”
“I’m trying. You don’t understand the shitstorm I just stirred up when I told my supervisor what’s been going on. The intelligence world is not too different from the Justice Department. Slow, suspicious, stupid.”
“Then I’ll start searching.”
“You might force Roger to trigger these bombs now.”
“He can’t have eyes on the entire building.”
All of these people, all of these floors.
“Look, can you send me credentials to get me into this building?” Dark asked.
“What are you going to do?”
“Anything I can.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
“At the very least, you’ll have plausible deniability,” Dark said. “You can blame it all on the crazy rogue ex-FBI agent.”
Graysmith didn’t respond. Dark stood up and started moving across the lobby floor, weaving his way around the crowd. A few people glanced in his direction, curious. Was that because he looked like he didn’t belong to any of the professional tribes here? Or because they recognized his face from CNN?
By the time Dark reached the counter, the phone in his hand buzzed. One new e-mail message.
“You’ve got it,” Graysmith said.
“Thank you,” Dark said, leaned forward on the security desk, and showed the face of his phone to three jacketed men stationed behind it.
“Gentlemen,” Dark said, “I need your help.”
chapter 77
The only thing the Niantic security force could do: attempt to remove all packages delivered this morning. Every. Single. Last. One. This was no easy task. Total manpower on the morning shift: fifteen men, including the three at the front desk. (Cutbacks, the supervisor explained.) That meant fourteen men for more than forty floors, multiple businesses on some floors. And good luck convincing an administrative assistant to hand over the mail to people they perceived as nothing more than rent-a-cops. If this was a real bomb threat, then why wasn’t the FBI or Kevlar-clad members of Homeland Security sweeping through the offices? Why weren’t the floors being evacuated immediately?
“Once we get these packages, what are we supposed to do with these damned things?” the supervisor asked.
Dark thought about it. “Do you have mail chutes?”
“Yeah. But they’re meant for envelopes, not boxes.”
“Then tell your men to load whatever won’t fit into the freight elevators and send them down to the basement as fast as possible.”
The basement and foundation were designed to withstand earthquakes; they would hopefully absorb the worst of the blasts, just like the World Trade Center did during the original bombing in February 1993.
“Go now—spread the word to your men. Nab as many of those packages as possible.”
“What about you?”
“I’m going to help.”
Dark, along with the security team, raced through the building. In some cases, boxes were still in their metal rolling carts, waiting to be delivered to various offices and cubicles on the floor. That made it simple. Without a word, Dark took the cart, rolled it out to the hallway, loaded it onto the freight elevator, and sent it down to the bottom floor where a guard took all incoming packages and quickly shuttled them into a corner. Dark offered to take this part of the job, but the guard refused. “My building, my job,” the guy said. “These terrorist motherfuckers can kiss my ass.” Word quickly spread, and office managers began to voluntarily remove the morning’s packages from the premises.
Instead of waiting for the elevators, Dark used the fire stairs to travel between floors. Somewhere around the twentieth floor, Dark heard a loud clanging sound, followed by hurried footsteps on concrete. As he rounded the corner, Dark looked up into Roger Maestro’s face.
Maestro didn’t hesitate. He immediately pulled a pistol from his belt and opened fire on Dark, who leaped out of the way a second before slugs chipped away at the concrete.
Dark tried the closest doorknob, but it was locked from the other side. Shit. Dark listened—Maestro was creeping down the fire stairs for him. Dark looked around him. Just a few water pipes above. Nothing that could be used a weapon. Nothing that could serve as a shield. Nothing to protect him from one of the most decorated shooters in recent history.
The only way to go:
Up.
Stepping on the metal support railing, Dark jumped up and grabbed hold of the water pipes, then pulled himself up, curling the rest of his body until he was as compact as possible. If he were Sqweegel, he could no doubt figure out how to squeeze his little insectoid body into the tiny crevice behind the pipes until danger passed. Dark was not Sqweegel. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t rip a few pages from the freak’s playbook.
Maestro turned the corner, gun sweeping the area.
Dark pushed against the pipes—launching himself down onto Maestro.
The bottoms of Dark’s shoes slammed into his upper back, the blow tilting him off balance and sending him into the concrete wall. Maestro moaned. The gun dropped to the concrete. Dark rolled off, keeping his body as limber as possible, then dove into him again, unleashing a flurry of dirty punches meant to shatter face bones and snap his windpipe.
But Maestro was heavier, taller, and thicker than Dark. He absorbed the blows before reaching out and seizing Dark’s neck. Dark felt himself being choked, then lifted and driven into the opposite wall. Skull cracking on concrete. He lifted a knee—Maestro blocked the blow. He balled his fists, then smashed them against the sides of Maestro’s chest. If any ribs cracked, Maestro gave no indication. He just continued choking Dark, the man’s thick, rough fingers sinking deep into his neck.
A trained military man.
Expert in killing.
Most likely armed with more than a single gun.
Dark clawed at Maestro’s body and was starting to go gray when he finally found it—the hunting knife in the sheath, hanging from the man’s belt.
The moment the blade cleared the leather, Maestro realized he’d left himself vulnerable.
He released his grip and stepped back to defend himself, just like he was trained.
But Dark wasn’t going for a jab—he wanted to eviscerate the motherfucker.
The blade glided along Maestro’s side, slicing through skin and muscle. Maestro bellowed. Dark raised the knife to drive it into the man’s chest. Maestro blocked the blow, so instead, Dark tightened his grip on the handle and drove a jackhammer punch into Maestro’s face.
The blow didn’t seem to faze Maestro at all, who returned with a series of punches of his own that drove Dark to the corner. He tried to the block the blows, but couldn’t stop them all. After a while, they blurred together and then everything faded—the grunting, his vision, and finally, the pain.
chapter 78
After a few moments, Maestro realized his side was bleeding heavily. He took a step back, gingerly touched his wound. It would need to be patched. Sooner than later.
Then there was the matter of their pursuer, now unconscious on the floor.
Abdulia had fully expected Steve Dark on the scene. She said he was a savvy investigator; he’d followed the trail to Fresno, he’d likely follow the trail here. But she didn’t expect him to be inside, scrambling to undo their life’s work. All of their careful planning over the past year, all of the intricate details of thei
r campaign . . . dashed to pieces by this lousy son of a bitch. Roger wanted to crouch down, wrap his hands around Dark’s scrawny neck, and twist until he heard bones snapping. Rip the man’s throat out, and squeeze the veins until his blood splatters on his dying face.
But no.
That wasn’t possible now.
Abdulia had explained that Dark’s life had intersected with theirs, just like that other lawman—the boy, Paulson. Now they needed Dark to finish the sequence. Killing him now would jeopardize everything.
Steve Dark would die when fate commanded.
Roger ambled down one flight, took a deep breath, then opened the door with a stolen passkey. He made his way through the elevator bank silently, passing two office workers who were flirting with each other while waiting for the next car to arrive. Roger remembered when he was that young, invulnerable, and could afford to ignore the dangers all around him. Like these two people. Early twenties and no idea that death was literally passing right by them. Why would they notice? Death was wearing a custodial uniform. If you were a janitor, it was proof you had fucked up somewhere along the way, that you deserved to be in that position.
When Roger reached the second set of fire stairs, he finally exhaled, then took the cell phone attached to his belt and pressed 1, speed-dialing a programmed number.
“It’s me,” he said. “Are you ready?”
“Yes, Roger. I’m across the street, waiting for you.”
“See you in a few minutes. Dark was here, inside the building.”
“Oh God,” she said. “Is he ...”
“He’ll make it to the end, don’t worry.”
“Do you think he knows about the packages?”
“Doesn’t matter. There are enough of them.”
“Come out now.”
“Soon as I can finish dialing,” Roger said.
Dark Prophecy Page 22
